The Warrior's Hands
by Cleo the Muse
Summary: DFR 'Give and Take' challenge response... something precious is taken from Daniel, something dangerous given in return.


**The Warrior's Hands** by Cleo the Muse  
Rating: Older Kids  
Genre: Gen, Angst, Friendship (Daniel/Teal'c), Hurt/Comfort  
Warnings: One tiny cussword  
Episodes: References to "The Gamekeeper" and "Forever in a Day". Set in season three, after "Forever in a Day".  
Synopsis: DFR "Give and Take" challenge response... something precious is taken from Daniel, something dangerous given in return.  
Status: Completed as of July 15, 2007  
Notes: Huge thanks and big hug to my fabulous beta, Nyx Ro, for saving this story from mediocrity!

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**The Warrior's Hands**

_"Not only the bull attacks his enemies with curved horn,  
but also the sheep, when harmed, fights back."  
-- Propertius Sextus_

As he did anytime he was given a puzzle to solve, Daniel Jackson studied the face in front of him carefully for clues to the man's identity. He was plain enough, in Daniel's opinion, with fine-boned features and a strong jaw. Bright blue eyes rested below thick eyebrows, full lips below a straight nose. A tangle of short brown hair topped it all, dried sweat and dust gluing the short locks together in spiky clumps. It was not the face of a soldier, he decided, despite the darkness lurking behind the eyes.

He shifted his gaze from the mirror to the hands clutching the basin of the sink over which he was leaning. Straightening, Daniel lifted his hands and turned them over, studying his palms and the backs of his hands with equal scrutiny. Long, slender fingers, made rough and strong by years of labor, these were not the _hands _of a soldier, but they knew how to hold a Beretta as surely as they did an inkpen or a trowel. The blunt nails had mud caked beneath them, but Daniel thought there should have been something else.

Blood should be staining his hands.

He closed his eyes, palms returning to the edges of the sink as he bowed his head. The face in the mirror was not that of a killer, nor were the hands, but killing was precisely what he'd been forced to do. Each time he pulled the trigger, each time he watched an enemy fall, he felt a tiny piece of the man he used to be silently screaming before falling into oblivion. In some ways, it was merciful that Sha're was now at peace, as she surely would not recognize him as the man she'd married--the man with whom she'd fallen in love--no matter what the mirror said.

Perhaps it wasn't the mirror, but his eyes which lied. The un-bloodied hands had been seen unaided, though through the lenses of his glasses. Even tugging the frames down to the tip of his nose and peering myopically at the suspect fingernails still showed only ordinary P2M-220 dirt.

He'd been carefully digging in that soil only hours ago, happily scraping away at a centuries-old monument covered in fascinating carvings. His ogham was rusty, but based on the accompanying crude illustrations, he felt certain the writing told the Irish legend of the defeat of Balor by the heroic Lugh. Excited by the find, he had set about cleaning as much of the structure as he could before SG-1 was scheduled to check in, whereupon he'd request the services of Doctor Flannery, the SGC's expert on Celtic and Norse mythologies. He was confident a few photos or a quick video of the inscriptions would have his fellow anthropologist chomping at the bit, begging General Hammond to let him go through the Stargate.

Hammond, he was sure, would oblige. So far, there had been no sign of civilization other than the ruins in which he was currently working. Besides the stele, there was a larger structure that had perhaps been a temple, though it was now only tumbled-down walls. Even the monument itself had fallen, broken from its base and leaning against one of the low walls. By accident, he'd discovered the "bottom" side of the heavy column was in near-pristine condition, sheltered as it was from sun, rain, wind, and dirt. Eager to film the inscriptions, he didn't think about his actions at all.

Minutes later, hands were on his ankles, hauling him out from beneath the stele and face-to-face with an anxious Jack O'Neill. The colonel's expression very quickly became anger. "What the _hell_ did you think you were doing?"

Daniel blinked up at his team leader. "Filming the inscriptions so that--"

"I can _tell_ that," Jack snapped, pointing to the video camera in his left hand, then to the looming monument. "Are you _trying_ to get yourself killed? Following in your parents' footsteps?"

The archaeologist recoiled like he'd been slapped, eyes flickering from Jack to the stone slab and back again. Immediately, he saw the parallel between his own position and the manner in which his father and mother had died when he was a child. Thanks to the so-called Gamekeeper of P7J-989, his entire team had been witness to his memories of the accident which claimed the elder Jacksons' lives, and he was horrified to think his thoughtless actions might have worried his friend. "I... I didn't--"

"You didn't _think_," the older man retorted. The soft brush Daniel had been using to remove dust from the carvings was deftly plucked out of his fingers, only to be replaced by the textured grip of his discarded Beretta.

Daniel flushed in embarassment. He hadn't deliberately left his firearm out of reach in _months_, yet when it started bruising his thigh as he lay under the monument, he'd unthinkingly unstrapped the holster and slid it out of the way. "The planet's uninhabited," he scowled, pushing himself into a sitting position.

"_Au contraire_, Doctor Oblivious, Sam and Teal'c came across footprints while they were gathering mineral samples. You would have known that if you'd left your vest and _radio_ on."

Now even the tips of his ears felt hot. "S-sorry," he managed, setting the camcorder down carefully and standing. He quickly wrapped the pistol belt around his hips and buckled it, then bent over to fasten the leg straps in place.

"I shouldn't have said that about your parents," Jack began unexpectedly.

Daniel's head came up in surprise. Was the colonel actually _apologizing _for something? He tried to see the expression on Jack's face, but his friend had turned away to pick up Daniel's discarded vest. After what seemed to be a deliberately slow inspection of the contents of the vest's pockets, Jack turned back toward the younger man, mouth opening to speak. Whatever the colonel intended to say was lost in a short cry of pain as he fell.

An arrow protruded from between his ribs.

"Daniel Jackson."

He jumped, spinning around toward the source of the deep voice. Teal'c stood in the door of the locker room, hands clasped behind his back. His expression would have been unreadable to anyone who didn't know the Jaffa well, but Daniel noticed tell-tale signs of deep concern.

He swallowed the dry lump that was threatening to lodge in his throat. "Jack?"

Teal'c bowed at the waist almost imperceptibly. "Doctor Fraiser has assured us he will recover fully."

"That's... that's good. Thank you, Teal'c."

"You are troubled." It wasn't a question.

"I'm fine."

"Indeed, you are not." He immediately turned and closed the locker room door, then crossed the room to stand before him. "Your actions saved O'Neill's life."

"I _killed _three men."

"Three men who were attacking you with no discernable provocation. You were defending yourself and O'Neill."

"I should have tried to talk to them, find out why!"

"You could not take that chance. They were armed."

Daniel's hands curled into fists. "Crude weapons only, Teal'c, daggers and spears."

Teal'c arched an eyebrow. "Clearly, one possessed a bow and arrows, which proved an effective means of downing O'Neill. The next arrow might have been for you."

Closing his eyes, Daniel sat heavily on one of the benches. "I didn't even _think _about it. I just shot them. I killed them without question. I keep thinking about how Jack took the brush out of my hand and replaced it with a gun. When did I stop being an archaeologist and start being a soldier?"

There was a moment of silence broken only by a soft creak of wood as Teal'c sat down on the bench beside him. "You are not--nor will you ever _be_--a soldier, Daniel Jackson."

Daniel's eyes flew open, and he turned to look at the Jaffa. "I'm not the man I used to be, Teal'c. Even if... even if we'd been able to save Sha're, she wouldn't recognize me now, wouldn't know the man I've become."

Teal'c bowed his head deeply, still feeling guilty for his part in her death despite Daniel's assurances he'd done the right thing. And he _had_ done the right thing, it had just taken Daniel a lot longer to believe his own words than he'd ever let anyone know. "Sha're, too, would have been changed by her enslavement by Ammaunet. You have not become a soldier, Daniel Jackson. You are, however, one of the greatest warriors I have ever known."

He wasn't sure whether to be insulted or flattered, though the manner in which Teal'c spoke implied it was intended as a compliment. "Teal'c--"

"Hear me out. O'Neill and I are soldiers, trained in the use of our hands and bodies as weapons, yet we are also warriors, for we use our hearts and minds to guide our actions. You are not a soldier, Daniel Jackson, but you_ are_ a warrior. You are a greater warrior than O'Neill or I because you use your heart and mind _as_ weapons. They are not always weapons which kill the enemy, but ones which win battles nevertheless."

Daniel flushed and stared down at his hands, resting on his knees. "They didn't help me today."

"On the contrary, your mind and heart determined O'Neill's safety to be paramount, and took appropriate action to ensure his survival. Had his life not been in danger, I am certain you would have made the attempt to persuade the natives of your peaceful intentions.

"As for the weapon O'Neill gave you in exchange for your brush, it was merely another of your tools. It is a tool you utilize only when it is absolutely necessary, and never before. Had other options presented themselves, I am certain you would have found a less-costly resolution to your predicament."

"If I hadn't distracted Jack, he might have seen them coming. It's--"

"It is further proof you are _not_ a soldier, Daniel Jackson," Teal'c replied. "I know you blame yourself for his injury, but I am equally certain O'Neill will blame himself for failing to notice the natives' arrival."

"Teal'c!"

"In truth, Daniel Jackson, the only real fault lies with the natives, who chose to attack seemingly without cause. If they had been warriors like you, this disaster would have been averted."

Daniel lifted his gaze briefly to meet Teal'c's and was startled by the emotional depths he saw within. It was easy to forget, sometimes, that the Jaffa was nearly three times his own age and had accumulated a wealth of wisdom from his experiences. The unwavering respect in his dark eyes was humbling, and Daniel once again regarded his hands.

Jack had once jokingly called them "teacher's hands", referencing Daniel's tendency to gesticulate when lecturing. They were hands which held brushes, trowels, and sieves; cameras, tape recorders, and metal detectors; knives, zats, and handguns. All were tools, though some were used to take lives while others were for preserving lives long-since lost. The only thing which dictated which tool was used when, he realized, was himself.

Life was about give and take. His parents had been taken, but he'd devoted himself to becoming an archaeologist in their honor. His career had been lost, but he'd been given Sha're. Sha're was now gone, but he had a new family in Jack, Sam, and Teal'c. Had he not taken the lives of his attackers today, his and Jack's--and possibly even the lives of Sam and Teal'c--might have been lost.

Despite Teal'c's reassurances, Daniel knew he'd made several costly mistakes today, errors which led to the deaths of three men who may only have been defending sacred ground. When Jack woke, he was sure to give Daniel a thorough and much-deserved dressing-down for his absent-mindedness. As an archaeologist, a simple mistake could result in the loss of a valuable piece of history, but as a soldier--no, a _warrior_--mistakes came at the cost of something even more irreplaceable: lives.

"The day you no longer regret the loss of life," Teal'c announced suddenly, "is the day you become someone unrecognizable. I wish there were more opportunities for you to wield your brushes and shovels than your weapon, but know that there is no one else I would rather have fighting at my side."

He felt himself trembling at the unusually voluble praise from the stoic Jaffa. "Thank you, Teal'c."

"It is I who should thank _you_, Daniel Jackson. Master Bra'tac once taught me that the true strength of a warrior was his heart. It was not until I met you that I began to understand the truth of his words. You have given me your forgiveness and friendship at times when I deserved only your anger and scorn. Look on your recently-acquired marksmanship skill not as a tool for taking lives, but as one for saving them. I am confident your heart will not permit your weapon's use unless your life or that of another is at stake."

Teal'c carefully reached out and clasped his shoulder. "You should shower and change clothing, Daniel Jackson. O'Neill will wish to see you when he awakens."

Daniel nodded, raising his own hand to touch the Jaffa's arm. He paused, inspecting the fingers and palm as he had earlier. Long, slender fingers, closely-trimmed nails darkened by mud. No blood marred the lightly tanned skin this time, yet lives had been wasted today.

He'd never considered his heart or mind to be weapons, but even a weapon as deadly as a nine-millimeter handgun was only just another tool. Daniel had spent years honing his intellect and passion toward the pursuit of history and understanding, and now he had to train them in another way. A tool was next to useless if it wasn't sharp, and he needed to be the proverbial razor's edge.

No more thoughtless action or careless inattention. Today it had been proven that it wasn't just his and his team's lives that were risked when he made mistakes, but countless other lives on-world and off. The same careful precision he applied to his archaeological endeavors was just as necessary for bands of primitive hunters, Jaffa patrols, and Goa'uld strongholds.

Next time--and there'd undoubtedly _be_ a next time, given his fickle luck--there would be no blood on his hands because he'd only _saved_ lives.

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Author's Notes:  
Whew! Finally got this one finished... Doctor "Gloomy Gus" Jackson almost didn't want to cooperate with me on the ending! 


End file.
